A small word of warning. I don't do blue...but this one may not be for everyone...contains scatological humor.
In order to ramp up for any major exercise, little three day exercises are planned to fine tune some aspects of field operations. I have been against three day field stints for a long time. The problem is that a GI can endure anything (almost) for three days. They can avoid hygiene, live in the same clothes, and hold their potty needs. In order to learn to live in the field, you have to live in the field. A young troop who was never much for outdoors and avoids a sit-down potty transaction anywhere but home will hang on to it for three days but will realize that even the strongest can't last for seven. Pwoody, the master of all squad leaders used to tell his troops that , "You gotta make a turd every day". Words to live by. I learned this for myself at age 17 in the woods outside of Wildflicken, Germany.
I was one who was very territorial about what my New Yorker buddy, Alphabet, called 'MAKING". Three day alerts and exercises were rough but when faced with the prospect of a field latrine...or worse...a slit trench, I chose to hold it. The first sit down after a short exercise was pretty rough. The way German toilets were designed, you had to "make" on a shelf-like arrangement inside the toilet bowl. When you flushed, a powerful rush of water sluiced from the back of the bowl, across the shelf and into the drain at the front of the bowl. It was a very efficient (duh..it was German !) appliance except that if you were "making" three days worth, you sometimes had to literally stand half way up to let things drop and if you tried a courtesy flush, sometimes the weight of your leavings (a by product of C-rations) would re-direct the water straight up...just use your imagination.
We had been on a few three day outings and were ready for the big winter "Field Problem". They would later be called "FTX", Field Training Exercise...but as a rookie we never called them anything but "Field Problems". It was to be a 3 WEEK exercise and we would be in motion most of the time. On the fifth or sixth day I was miserable. There was no way I was going to make it another two weeks. I was not about to straddle a slit trench, either. Late on a very dark, snowy afternoon while we were waiting to move out behind our advancing tanks, I was at the point where I could no longer defy MamaNature. I was parked on a forest road, ice covered dirt. The trees on the right side of the road were smallish and very close together...prickly piny trees, too. I decided to find a way to relieve the pressure in the woods. I walked a few yards into the trees and since I couldn't see the trucks, I figured I was invisible to them. I found a place to drop my pants; Outer shell field pants, wool OG pants, long johns and skivies. It was cold. I squatted awkwardly, concerned about target area, not wanting to go to all this trouble and wind up crapping in my pants, anyway. But once I assumed the position, all reason left. I was gripped in the throes of unbelievable agony. My belly cramped, my back spasmed, and it felt like I was being split in half. I changed my mind...I didn't want to do this anymore. NO WAY. Nature had taken over and this episode was going on to its conclusion with or without me. And finally, suddenly, it was over. I was aching, and throbbing and panting like a greyhound...but it had past. As the cold began to settle in, I roused myself to stand and put myself together. I was horrified. Sometime in the midst of my agony, I apparently straightened my legs out enough to change the trajectory of my projectile...it had landed squarely in my underpants. It was dark and steaming and the approximate size and shape of a slow-pitch softball. And about the same consistency, too. I rolled it out and it left without leaving a...scar?...and I got back to my truck before the convoy left. It was a life changing experience. I knew without any sergeant telling me, that from now on I would have to find a place to "make" everyday. I never wanted to go through that again.
Flashing forward, it seems funny to me, now. After 26 years of running around in the woods, the desert, the mountains, the jungles or whatnot...you kind of loose that territoriality. You'll crap anywhere.. During Desert Storm there wasn't a tree within 400 miles. Once the war started its manuever phase and there weren't any latrines, you would see soldiers improvising all manner of facilities. Leaning up against the back bumper of our Blazer...sitting on the front bumper of a 5ton equipped with a winch...hunched between the tandem axles of a truck...sitting on an upended ammo box...and my favorite...a cav soldier sitting in a plastic mess hall chair with the center of the seat cut out, pants around his ankles, next to the Main Supply Route, reading a hometown newspaper and waving to the passing convoys. It may be a little crude for some of you, but the wisdom of Pwoody stands ...I still try to live by it, today...you gotta make a turd every day."